GUN 2013 ~ the short novel



Gun 2013:

A free read from Rawclyde!



Doctor No & Me


I read the paperback book when I was in the 9th grade ~ after I saw the movie in the 8th grade…



I didn’t know who Sean Connery or Ursula Andress were, let alone James Bond, when I first viewed the film…



I was introduced to Ursula Andress when with about 8 friends at the Fox Theatre.  Doctor No & James Bond introduced us little 8th graders to her as Honey Rider.  And she was larger than life ~ there in 1964!



This scene reminds me of Submissivania Whapp and myself in GUN 2013 ~ a short novel I finished writing recently…


007 poster

Ursula Andress & Sean Connery never starred as Submissivania Whapp & yours truly in GUN 2013, but they might as well have…


GUN 2013

a secret-agent tale by Rawclyde!

(free read)


A short novel…

the wooden eagle

GUN 2013

a secret-agent adventure

(concerned with common-sense gun law)




(Copyright Clyde Collins 2013)



free read


Introductions begin here:

The fiction narrative begins here:

Soon enough to be a website with some concluding arguments

Then maybe an e-book

Stepping forward…



GUN 2013

Chapter 13


What perverse ideology leads a man to don a clown costume & give loaded derringers to children?  He’s over the edge.  He’s over.  Period.

The sad scene behind me on Cortez Street dictates courage, dictates that I investigate.  I slither out from behind the trash bin.  I straighten up.  I step forward.  The clown disappeared up the alley & I want to know exactly where.

Limping now, I step forward again & again.  I step across Gurley Street ~ named after a surveyor & officer in the U.S. Army who set out for but never made it to Prescott.  He was going to be the town’s first mayor if I remember my history correctly.

A motorist almost runs me down.  What else is new?  Another motorist slows, stops, condescendingly  wiggles her fingers at me to continue across the damn street.  I do as beckoned & back alley drift between the tall edifice of Saint Michael’s Hotel & a little Buddha gift store ~ both built of crumbling brick.  The clarity of the situation is hitting me now.  The shadows, though shrinking, are deep & mystical.  This reminds me of when I walked down Oak Creek Canyon along the highway under a full moon.  But I’m in Prescott & it’s almost noon.  And, as usual, there’s nothing to fear but God.  And He is known to loves us.

I think I am getting Gurley mixed up with Whipple when it comes to the historical personalities of Prescott.  Was Whipple’s first name Fort?  No, I don’t think so.  And it might very well be he was going to be not Prescott’s first mayor but Arizona’s first governor.  He never made it.  I best stop thinking about this.

And it’s getting hot around here.  Sweat is dripping down the side of my face.  My armpits are sopping wet ~ might be because I’m wearing a new vest.  I pull down the brim of my old hat.  My hair, I’m sure, is all over the place, like, I’m an over-the-hill hippie with a silver beard…

~ by Rawclyde!


copyright by Ken Loots


Run like a deer, like a rabbit…

mule deer running


GUN 2013

Chapter 12


Do I actually tumble down the stairs?  No.  I scuttle like a bug.  The soles of my hiking shoes barely touch the edge of each corrugated metal step at the backside of the inn.  Now I’m on the ground & down the alley & around the corner.  Why didn’t I go out the front?  Why ain’t I perfect?  And why has my left leg gone lame?  Why are my knees cracking?  Why am I not having a heart attack instead of running like a deer, like a rabbit?

Run run.

I run by the poor kid layed-out on the sidewalk, 3 or 4 folks gathered around him, one kneeling checking the little guy’s lack of pulse, the crying little girl standing there with a derringer in her hand.  The reality of the minature 22-caliber gun not being a toy ~ hammers her sweet little face as the tears waterfall into a lake at her feet.  She just killed her brother with a gun that a clown gave her.

I’m running down the cross-street because I saw a flash of that clown turn down an alley.  He is red white & blue aflutter ~ big red & blue spots on white with gold ruffles, goofy face, frizzy hair, a red ball stuck on the end of his nose.  This little red ball came undone, is bouncing on the sidewalk.  I kick it into the traffic as I pass ~ old horn-dog style now ~ so swiftly do I pass.

When I reach the alley down which the not-so-funny rainbow disappeared, I’m totally out of breath.  I slow down.  I turn the corner into the alley casually & in no hurry.  I am on a sight-seeing stroll.  I am a humming tourist.

There he is ~ way up the narrow back-way ~ crossing Gurley Street.  Now he is behind Whiskey Row.  He is on the move at a brisk pace.  And now, baby, now, so am I.


In the blink of of a lizard’s eye, he is on one knee facing me with what looks like an assault rifle & scope raised & ready to fire.

I go squat behind a trash bin & pretend like I’m taking a crap.  A fashionably dressed man & woman on a fancy date stroll by.  They’re laughing.  I straighten up and peer over the bin.

My prey is gone.  I forgot to mention the clown was toting a laundry-like cloth bag ~ I presume full of goodies.  That must be from where he pulled out what I presume was a deadly weapon aimed at my head.  I presume it was not a toy…

~ by Rawclyde!



Photos courtesy of:


Fading away on the balcony…



GUN 2013

Chapter 11


“The common sense gun regulation bill got buffaloed in the senate.”

“You mean the gun control bill?”

“No.  I mean the common sense gun regulation bill.  ‘Gun control’ doesn’t sound right to me.  I don’t use the term.”

“All the people I’ve talked to around here say Obama wants to disarm them of their firearms.”

“That’s the NRA lying to the gullibles.  Our Commander In Chief doesn’t like little Americans in their elementary school getting their brains splattered all over the walls by an over-armed maniac.”

“What do you propose?”

“Well, with the gun bill defeated in the senate, I propose intelligent voting by American citizens in 2014.”

Submissivania laughs.

“Hey, if the American people refuse to be buffaloed,” I say, “This gun legislation can still get through!”

Submissivania laughs again ~ bitterly ~ and shrugs.

The Earth’s aura is thick with mystery and so is my head.  The town is a mother lode of human spirit.  The American motorist rules.  Benches are prevalent downtown, never the less, for weary pedestrians ~ a generous gesture by the city mothers and fathers to the tourists, and to people like me.  A chilly wind is knocking about.  But the sun is arising.  And Thumb Butte keeps winking at the White House’s two favorite secret agents perched on a third-floor balcony above Cortez Street in Prescott,  Arizona.

By n’ by a feller come outta the hall door behind us & lean on the rail to the other side of alluring Submissivania.  It doesn’t take long for her to divert her attention in his direction.  He is younger, more outgoing, more stupid than me.  I cannot comprehend why Submissivania’s alarming shoulder is bumping him now instead of yours truly ~ except I suppose he’s one of the boys that has been in & out of her room in the wee hours of the night since my secret-agent partner & myself have been rooming here.  That’s how it’s been at the Downtown Prescott Inn.

I don’t know what they’re talking about.  It doesn’t make sense to me.  They’re yammering on & on about balance & awareness & loping & rearing up & eating grass along the trail.  His hand fondles her knee and that too submissively swings in his direction.  In fact, my fair lady eventually swirls around, leans her back against the balcony.  Pretty soon they might as well be slow dancing & I might as well be Perry Como singing Moon River specially for them to enhance their romantic inclinations.

My happy face has faded entirely away.  My new mood is becoming pretty transparent.  But they don’t notice.  Or care.  I might just as well be a ghost.

As I’m deciding how to sneak away from there, my favorite duet leaves instead.  I think they say something about riding horses before they go.  They’re gone without any good-byes to the old grey ghost who has been fading away on the balcony.

So now what?  Am I going to go to the gym across the street or the public library up the hill?  Will I hit the church for free grub or the ornery mother goddess for free coffee?  How ’bout the community college library?  I could go there.  Or I could visit a friend.  I happen to have had at least 3 years of familiarity with this place, Prescott, before I returned two months ago accompanied by Submissivania ~ and the day is actually becoming more and more beautiful.

I’m about to turn & head out when something catches my attention on the sidewalk across the street.  What’s a clown doing down there?  A man in a colorful Bozo costume just handed a little kid a small gift-wrapped package.   The clown just handed another kid another one.  That’s nice.  The little boy and girl run down the sidewalk tearing open their free whatevers.  There’s a loud bang.  And the boy drops ~ drops dead?

I turn, run down the hall, tumble down the stairs, to investigate…

~ by Rawclyde!


Artwork by Quintero:


Too much waiting…



GUN 2013

Chapter 10


Neither one of us know what our mission entails.  Our one order ~ go to Prescott AZ ~ has been realized.  We are in that town now.  We are in Prescott waiting waiting waiting for more orders.

We lean forever on the 3rd-floor balcony rail.  Submissivania’s short skirt slips higher up her smooth thigh when she puts forward one foot.  Says she, “How much longer must we wait?”

I slowly shake my head.  “I don’t know.”

“Not a clue?”

“Just the same old hunch ~ that it has something to do with ~ with gun law.”

Submissivania slowly shakes her head & sighs, “Washington D.C.”

I oh so slowly nod ~ and say nothing more.

We raise our cups at the same time, sip our coffee.  These cups from the lobby downstairs are made of plain white styrofoam.  We lower our cups ~ at the same time again.  Submissivania bumps my shoulder with her shoulder, on purpose I am sure, which spills my coffee, a little bit of it.  We both look down to see the splash on Cortez Street ~ 3-stories below ~ but we see nothing ~ nothing but people strolling by…

~ Rawclyde!




At the Downtown Prescott Inn…

Prescott AZ 1910

Downtown Prescott Inn, Prescott AZ, 1910…


GUN 2013

Chapter 9


Submissivania eyeballs me over her morning coffee.  Two green pools of bottomless desire beckon me to be what I am not.  I am not young.  So I look away & comment on the weather.

“Indeed it is Spring,” replies Submissivania.

Prescott is budding everywhere.  We witnessed the last of the winter snow a few days after our arrival about a month ago.  Now Spring is on the prowl.

Downtown Prescott is nestled in the hills down which trickles Granite Creek.  The city is an old mining and cattle town ~ with some suburbs now ~ the major tumor on the side of its head being Prescott Valley.    The city of Prescott has vehemently, protectively, adopted as its own the forest it ravaged in the early days.  Thumb Butte, a towering outcrop of blunt rock west of downtown, is the city signpost.  Granite Mountain, a much bigger rock and a mountain-lion lair, stoically eternally grimaces yonder northwest.

The vivacious damsel & I have rooms across the hall from each other on the topmost 3rd floor of the Downtown Prescott Inn. This inn has the characteristics of an old miner whose Stairway to Heaven is made of thick slabs of ornate wood.  This inn is quite an establishment in my estimation ~ enough so that I’m going broke staying here.  It doesn’t take much to make me go broke.  My only income, presently, is a meager stipend of Social Security that I began receiving this long-gone winter.

Out on our 3rd-floor balcony Submissivania & I lean against the rail & drink the free brew from the main lobby.  We got a nice view up here.  Submissivania commences in wrapping me around her little finger by saying, “Rawclyde, when are you going to start wearing your new hat?  Aren’t you tired of that old one yet?”

“By n’ by,” wistfully crow I, gazing at Thumb Butte out yonder…



Thumb Butte, Prescott AZ, photo by Franz Rosenberger





GUN 2013

Chapter 8


Our mission objective is to get to Prescott, Arizona, & await further instruction.  We’re there.

We’ve been here for some time now.  About a month.  Awaiting further instruction.

My hunch is our mission has something to do with gun legislation in Washington D.C.

So I drop by the library at the Yavapai Community College & rifle through the NRA’s latest American Rifleman magazine, which on the cover claims to be “The World’s Oldest & Largest Firearm Authority.”

This is a paranoid periodical.  The U.S. President is referred to as “King Pinnochio” on the cover ~ as if our president is the one doing all the lying.  Pinnochio was a wooden puppet of lore whose nose grew real long because he lied.  I don’t think the president’s nose is as long as Pinnochio’s.  And I don’t think the president is made out of wood. 

This is the April 2013 edition of the American Rifleman on the table in front of me.  Working in a thrift store a few years back, I came across hundreds of older issues of this magazine when it was highly regarded.  It doesn’t look so reputable now.  Twenty first-grade children and their teachers were massacred by a nut-cake wielding an assault weapon not too long ago in Newtown, Connecticut.  The president feels it is his duty to do something about it.  This magazine claims that our man in the White House is blatantly lying about what he’s doing.

According to Wayne Peeintheair, the most outspoken voice in this National Rifle Association (NRA) publication, the best thing the president can do, is make sure the laws already on the books are being enforced.  Not a bad idea.  My hunch is the president is already doing the best he can with this.

Three quotes by the president are highlighted on the first page of the cover story.  The quotes reflect common sense and are fair.  But, of course, Peeintheair writes in this article that the president is lying, especially when the president says, “I am not going to take your guns away.”  Peeintheair would find loopholes in the truth if the president said, “I am black.”

Also, why is it that when people like Peeintheair rant and rave about their 2nd Amendment right to bare firearms, they never mention the first part of the amendment about a “well regulated militia”?  Privately owned vehicles are strictly regulated via driver’s licenses, car registration, and car insurance.  What makes these people think deadly firearms should be exempt from such regulatory attention ~ especially after the needless slaughter of 20 school children?  

I say President Barack Obama is not lying.  I am the White House’s favorite secret agent.  Well, I am one of them.  The other one is my partner on this mission, Ms. Submissivania Whapp.

~ Rawclyde!



Quite a gal…

courtesy of Evelina Galli 2


GUN 2013

Chapter 7


Submissivania Whapp, it turns out, is not only a pretty woman.  She’s become an accomplished pony rider over the years in a secret canyon of the urban sprawl of Los Angeles.  And she’s become the best-selling author of the world’s most sought after erotica in the late-night glow of her bedroom computer.  And she’s a top-gun corporate executive on week days.  And she’s the youngest of the White House’s favorite secret agents ~ 24 years old.  And she hasn’t moved out of her parent’s sprawling suburban-ranch home yet.

Ms. Whapp lets go these autobiographicals as she massages my neck & shoulders.  This massaging endeavor of hers causes me to swiftly recover from my swoons.  Now her close proximity is elevating me to a clairvoyant height I’ve never obtained before in a Greyhound bus seat.  Her flowery scent, her warm breath, the congenial display of valley and hillock within licking distance lifts my consciousness out of a muck that it’s been languishing in for I don’t know how many years.  The clairvoyance I’m experiencing is startling.  I actually witness angels grouped around the exterior of the bus protecting it from traffic accidents as it speeds along the highway.  My religiousity soars as Ms. Whapp’s hands, saintly lampoons, knead all cares and worries out of my teetering over-the-hill body.  I’m an ecstatic old timer ~ downright near experiencing levitation.

We roll past stacks of cotton on cotton farms, into the desert town of Gila Bend, and park for a hamburger and a coke.  We’ve got 20 minutes.

While we scarf-up the delicacies at Carl’s Jr. I tell Submissivania, “This is where I sold books out of a truck once upon a time.  Right here, right here where we’re sitting.”

“Really, Rawclyde, you’re so funny!” bubbles my favorite secret-agent partner.

“Right here in this very spot, before this hamburger joint was ever here,” I tell her.  “I sold a little book of lyrics written by old Hank Williams to a school teacher one day.  A half hour later another school teacher come by all excited and buy a fat biography of Pancho Villa.”

“That’s hilarious, Rawclyde!” giggles Submissivania.

I got the feeling that this pretty woman is patronizing the old man.  Which, in actuality, is okay with me.  She slyly looks around, sticks a french fry into a puddle of catchup on her tray, pops it into her mouth.  I take another bite of my burger, gulp down some coke.  The burger isn’t too bad.

“I called that old truck ~ Rawclyde’s Book Mule.”

“Oh Rawclyde!  How cute!”